


Ink

by dezuotian



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 13:10:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dezuotian/pseuds/dezuotian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras just has such beautiful skin, and Grantaire doesn't understand why he <i>shouldn't</i> want to draw all over it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ink

This little phenomenon, if it could be called that, began a couple of months after they had started dating. Enjolras found himself wrapped up in some news story on TV – he couldn’t even remember what it was, now – and had barely noticed when Grantaire took his hand. He did notice, however, when _something_ started pulling across the inside of his arm, and looked over to find Grantaire drawing on him with a blue ballpoint pen. His news story forgotten, he watched his boyfriend draw for a moment before he asked cautiously, “R, what are you doing?”

Grantaire was still shy about his art with Enjolras at this point. He would never let the blond see anything until it was absolutely finished, and even then only the things he was happiest with. His sketchbooks were one hundred percent off limits, a boundary which Enjolras respected unquestioningly. This is why he was surprised that the artist was drawing so readily like this.

“Blue washes off easier than black,” Grantaire said, and left it at that. He stopped drawing a moment later, and left Enjolras with a small flower on his arm. “It’s hypothesized that Hyacinth was actually turned into an iris instead of a true hyacinth,” he explained without being asked, and put his pen back behind his ear, then went outside for a cigarette.

It was a couple of weeks before it happened again. This time Enjolras was catching up on emails, his chin propped against his palm, when Grantaire teased his hand away. This time the bright-eyed cynic emblazoned the courageous leader with a minimalist sun, “Because you are my Apollo, whether you like it or not.” And this time, Enjolras smiled and kissed him for it.

After another month or so, Grantaire worked up to using paints on Enjolras. He had been fresh out of the shower the first time, in nothing but underwear, his hair tied in a damp knot at the base of his neck, when Grantaire started filling the palette board. Enjolras fell into bed on his stomach, and picked up where he had left Homer’s Odyssey a week before.

“I hope you’re comfortable,” Grantaire smiled at him as he set his paints and brushes down on the nightstand.

Enjolras looked up at him quizzically, his glasses sitting across the bridge of his nose.

“You’re gonna be here for a bit,” the artist explained, and pulled a broad stroke across Enjolras’s shoulder blade. He twitched a little from the cold, but did not complain.

Eventually, Enjolras began reading out loud to Grantaire, who, half an hour later, was still painting on his shoulder. Grantaire was almost finished by the time he noticed that Enjolras had nodded off into his book, his glasses askew. He put the last touches on his work, peeled Enjolras’s face out of the Odyssey (to several half-asleep protests from the overworked man) and put his glasses on top of it where he could find them. He sat next to Enjolras until he was sure his paint was dry, took a few quick pictures with his phone, cleaned up his paints, and crawled into bed next to Enjolras.

The blond had an early class the next morning, and was gone before Grantaire woke up. He checked his phone.

Enjolras:  
I forgot that you had painted on me until after I got to campus. I hope I didn’t ruin it, whatever it was. ):

Grantaire sent him one of the photos, captioned: “You fell asleep in the middle of it.”

“It” was a Grecian trireme, sailing across Enjolras’s shoulder on a white-capped wave. Enjolras gasped audibly in the middle of his lecture, and didn’t care that he had interrupted or who was looking. He saved the picture immediately.

Enjolras:  
Oh, god. I really hope I didn’t ruin that.

Grantaire:  
It’s just paint. It’s not supposed to be permanent.

Enjolras:  
But it’s beautiful! Grantaire!

Grantaire:  
:)

  


Enjolras had a tendency of falling asleep whenever Grantaire painted on him, so he tried not to do it often, and never when Enjolras was on the phone. Phone calls were limited to pens and markers only, depending on the severity of the conversation.

Tonight, Enjolras was making what was supposed to be a friendly business call, and Grantaire had decided that permanent ink was a safe choice.

Unfortunately, he was wrong.

The conversation had started amicably enough. Enjolras was meant to be solidifying details with one of the sponsors for ABC’s next rally, and Grantaire had begun sketching his design in pen. It was when he picked up his Sharpie that the conversation went south. The company representative that Enjolras was speaking with wanted to change something that was, apparently, absolutely out of the question.

“Did you not read our mission statement before you sent the check? I provided all of our information weeks ago!” Enjolras instantly got defensive.

Grantaire should have known enough to stop then, but he just eyed Enjolras cautiously for a minute and kept filling in his outline.

“I understand that it is just one sentence, but changing that one sentence changes the whole tone and thereby the point of the entire event. I cannot, and will not, undermine ABC’s initiative in that way, or betray our supporters, who are trusting me to do exactly the opposite of what you are suggesting.”

“Absolutely not!” Enjolras yelled, jumping up out of his chair with the energy of the statement. Grantaire narrowly avoided putting a black streak down the side of Enjolras’s white button-down, and instinctively raised his marker above his head as the face of ABC stomped off toward the bedroom to continue berating the sponsor.

Grantaire did not try to stop him, or to calm him down. He knew better than that. Instead, he capped his marker and moved from the kitchen table to the sofa and turned on the television, keeping the volume low for the sake of the screaming match happening in the other room. After two-thirds of a cooking competition show that Grantaire had settled on only because there was literally nothing else on, Enjolras came back out of the bedroom and fell into the couch next to him.

“I thought they were on board with your whole plan.” Grantaire pulled Enjolras into his side where he had collapsed.

Enjolras buried his face into Grantaire’s shoulder and hummed. “They were supposed to have been. Last-minute is a really great time to try to compromise.”

“So?”

“We lost them. Which is going to hurt our budget, but I’m hoping we can make up for it in donations and merchandising.”

“Ferre is going to be really pleased with you.”

“Well he should be. He would rather lose a sponsor than lose our integrity.”

After a moment of breathing across Grantaire’s collarbone, Enjolras spoke again. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Interrupting you. I should have given you a warning first.”

“I should have been smart enough to stop before you went all vengeful god,” Grantaire smiled.

Enjolras gave him a look that was lost somewhere between scolding and amused, but soon gave up and just looked tired instead. “Would you finish? Please?”

Grantaire picked up his marker from the coffee table and arranged Enjolras’s arm in his lap, finishing the design he had started on the inside of his elbow.

“Have I told you recently how wonderful you are?” Enjolras asked as Grantaire put his marker back down.

“Not recently, no.”

“You are so, so wonderful,” Enjolras put a hand on Grantaire’s face and kissed him. “And I am so, so lucky you are mine.”

 

It was about a week later, after the ABC rally while Enjolras was shaking hands and answering questions, that Grantaire noticed it. He made his way through the crowd to his boyfriend, who was wearing his trademark red shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “Please tell me you’ve showered in the last week,” Grantaire joked with him.

“Of course I have. What do you mean?”

“This.” He took up Enjolras’s arm to look at the laurel wreath crossed with a set of arrows that he had drawn there. “It was just Sharpie, I mean it’s not like I tattooed you.”

Enjolras smiled. “Feuilly did.”

Grantaire nearly lost his balance, and grabbed onto Enjolras’s shoulder to steady himself. Enjolras gave him a concerned look, which was lost on him as he stared at the design that was now inked permanently into Enjolras’s skin. Enjolras had never even talked about tattoos before, not that he had ever scolded his friends for any of theirs. Grantaire had no idea he was even interested in tattoos, and for something he had designed to be Enjolras’s first… “You are the most amazing, perfect human being and I love you so much.”

“Human being? I’m not a god this time?” Enjolras teased.

“Shut up, Apollo.” Grantaire smiled, and kissed him, hard enough to make his point, but not long enough to be indecent.

 

A couple of weeks afterward, Grantaire skipped out straight after a meeting with no warning or goodbye. Feuilly had missed that week, too, which was exceptionally strange, as he usually dropped everything to be there. Enjolras was still awake when Grantaire got home, an hour and a half later, sitting on the sofa with his laptop.

“Hey,” Enjolras greeted Grantaire as he came over to kiss him hello. “What was so important that you had to leave so quick?”

“I had an appointment.” Grantaire sat down on the coffee table in front of Enjolras. There was a piece of black plastic wrapped around his forearm. “How’s your arm doing?”

“Fine.” Enjolras showed him the tattoo, which, under Grantaire's experienced hand and lots of worrying from Feuilly, had healed well and not dropped its color. “What’s with the plastic?”

“Really?” Grantaire laughed, and peeled off the tape to take off the wrap. In the same place as Enjolras’s laurel wreath, Grantaire had a new tattoo, still red around the edges, of a set of circular grape vines crossed with two thyrsi, in exactly the same style. “Every Apollo needs a Dionysus.”

Enjolras laughed brightly, “You are incorrigible.”

“You love me anyway.” Grantaire smiled and leaned forward to kiss Enjolras again.

“Yes, yes I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> So this little gem started as a random idea after writing a note to myself on my hand (if I do not write things down I always forget, haha) and it kinda turned into this. I hope you like it! :)
> 
> For anyone wondering, thyrsi is the plural for thyrsus. [This is the Wikipedia page about them.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thyrsus)
> 
> From [this post](http://dezuotian.tumblr.com/post/68968937723/sometimes-when-enjolras-is-reading-or-watching) on tumblr, which is also mine.
> 
> [Extra ending:  
> “Hey, did you know that Apollo and Dionysus are half-brothers?”  
> “Yes. Your point?”  
> “You’re Apollo, I’m Dionysus… Come on, are you serious?”  
> “Dear God, Grantaire, that is disgusting.”  
> “You’re judging,” Grantaire scolded. “But I don’t know. If you ask me, it’s kinda hot.”]


End file.
